She smiled. “About your heartfelt plea for the honor of waltzing with me, and of nothing on earth being enough to make you forgo the pleasure.”
He frowned at her. After a moment during which he searched her eyes, he asked, “What in all that did you find ‘extravagant’?”
She sent him a wry but smiling look. “You know perfectly well that you’re the only partner I’ll willingly waltz with. If you ask me to waltz, I’m not going to refuse—no ‘heartfelt plea’ likely ever to be required.”
“Good.” He drew her closer, spinning them effortlessly through a tight turn. “However,” he continued, as they fell into the long revolutions once more, “should you ever refuse, I would indeed plead, even go down on my knees, to secure your hand for a waltz.” He met her eyes. “I like waltzing with you.” After a moment, he added, “I appreciate waltzing with you. I adore waltzing with you—and not even that is stating it too highly.”
She looked into his eyes, and pleasure, warm and seductive, filled her. She smiled. “I like waltzing with you, too.”
“I know. And I like that, too.” He had to look up to steer them through the other whirling couples. When he looked down again he trapped her eyes. “So you see, there wasn’t anything the least extravagant in what I said. It was the truth as I know it.”
He was utterly serious; Madeline felt her heart stutter, felt the glow within spread. But…
“They’re from London, and rather maliciously inclined. You’ll be returning there in autumn to look for your bride—they could—”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that.” The sudden edge in his voice, almost a snap, was a reminder that that subject—his bride—was not one any gentleman would discuss with his…lover.
Despite the sudden lurch of her heart, she kept her expression mild and inclined her head. “Very well.”
She looked over his shoulder, and tried to recapture the magic of the waltz, but even though she was revolving in his arms, the soothing pleasure now eluded her.
Her mention of his bride had doused it. Had created a gulf between them, one that remained for the rest of the evening even though he stayed by her side throughout. They chatted with their neigbors and others from the district, outwardly so assured that no one would have guessed that inside, they were both mentally elsewhere, both thinking.
About the same thing.
They didn’t speak or even allude to it again, but when the ball was drawing to a close, and ahead of the rush Gervase escorted her and Muriel to their carriage, after helping Muriel up, he turned to her. Her hand in his, he studied her face, her shadowed eyes, then bent his head and whispered, “Come to the boathouse. Meet me there tonight.”
He straightened and looked at her—waited for her response.
She nodded. “Yes. All right.”
Relief seemed to wash through him, but it was so faint, so fleeting, she couldn’t convince herself she’d truly seen it.
He helped her into the carriage, then shut the door and stood back. He raised a hand as it rocked forward.
She stared out of the window—stared at him as long as she could—then, with a sigh, she sat back. Closed her eyes. And started to plan how she would get to the boathouse.
On the terrace flanking Felgate Priory’s ballroom, Lady Hardesty strolled on the arm of her occasional lover—who had finally deigned to be seen socially with her. She’d noticed him in the crowd, chatting amiably with numerous locals, from which she’d deduced that his tale of an elderly relative might just be true. He had to be staying with some recognized family in the district to have received one of Lady Felgate’s summonses.
He’d stopped by her side earlier, cutting her out so they’d been alone amid the throng, but only to give her his latest instructions. Although she knew why she obeyed him, the necessity still irked. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the slightest bit susceptible to her wiles. Even more unfortunately, that was part of his allure.
“So what did you learn?” he demanded, the instant they were sufficiently distant from the other couples taking the air. The night was unusually hot; the suggestion of a storm hung in the air.
She sighed. “I had to send Gertrude to ask—she wasn’t with us earlier, when Crowhurst was so vicious. Whoever would have imagined he’d defend Miss Gascoigne so fiercely? Amazing though it seems, he must be bedding her—it’s the only possibility that makes sense.”
“I don’t care about Crowhurst or which woman he elects to tumble. I want to know about that brooch.”
Menace and violence ran beneath the precisely enunicated words. His fingers bit into her arm. She spoke quickly, “Indeed, and for that you have both me and Gertrude to thank. She had to hide the fact she was one of us and pretend she was some lady visiting the district—she did an excellent job following my directions.”
“And?”
“Miss Gascoigne said she received the brooch for her birthday.”
“From whom?”
“Her brothers. And yes, Gertrude asked—according to Miss Gascoigne they bought it from one of the traveling traders at the festival.” She paused, glanced at his face. “You must have missed it when you looked.”
His eyes had narrowed. “I didn’t miss it.”